


You take what you can get

by Anuna



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Season 4 AU, Smut, art based fic, au in which ward survived hive, based on a gifset, don't have any actual knowledge of s4, hellfire!ward (because why not?), major character death mentioned in passing, nor does this story require it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:04:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8309545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: “Come on Grant,” she's saying, aware that she didn't use his name since forever; since they've been friends. “You always wanted to fuck me.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written (very quickly) as a result of inspiration brought by [this gifset](http://924inlegend.tumblr.com/post/151792373511/s4-au-skye-breaking-into-one-of-wards-safehouses) by **924inlegend** on tumblr.

She breaks inside without any finesse she is supposed to posses after three years of working for a spy agency – she quakes the door open and shuts them closed by pushing her back against it. (It's good to finally have something behind her back that at least feels solid). It's not like she can keep her presence a secret for long, nor does she want to. A significant part of her longs to be found out. And found out she is – he is just in the other room and she can hear him move, but it's more than that. She can _feel_ him, the distinct signature of vibrations unique for him. It sizzles through her bloodstream as she's leaning heavily against the wooden door, defenseless.

 

“You can't just break in and enter, Skye,” his voice carries from the other room with a sharp edge she definitely deserved.

 

She doesn't answer. She's realizing that her breath is coming short, her chest hurts, her sides hurt. She wonders if her arm is the only thing that's broken. (It's not. It's just that some breaks aren't strictly physical). She just waits there, panting and trying not to wail because it hurts. _Everything hurts._ Every inch of her body, all of her muscles, both of her arms, her feet.

 

Her quiet brings him out and he pauses on the doorstep. She can feel him standing there, but her eyes are too heavy to open.

 

“What are you doing here, Skye?” he asks, and sure, by now he can see what a mess she is. But that name tugs at something inside of her, some part of her that she thought long gone. Maybe it's her wishful thinking but his voice doesn't sound so harsh like a moment before. She lets out a hissing breath.

 

“I thought I could come over here, bleed all over your place - “ she says, feeling her legs start to tremble and give out. It's been nearly six hours since her run in with SHIELD. “Especially since ruining things... is your specialty,” she's saying, not able to help herself.

 

His next words sound as if they were chosen carefully.

 

“Are you just here to insult me or do you want -”

 

She doesn't catch the rest. She has grown accustomed to the pain, really, she can bear a fair amount of it, but she finds herself crying out and slipping to the floor, feeling helpless and without any sort of dignity.

 

And she doesn't want SHIELD to see her like this.

 

Ever.

 

“I didn't know where else to run -” she's saying. “I don't – I can't-”

 

She's feeling dizzy. The floor is right there to catch her when she topples over. She hits her bad arm in the process and it _hurts_ , but there's nothing she can do about it. She passes out.

 

 

*

 

When she wakes up, she feels disoriented.

 

At first there's no pain. Then, a couple of moments later she can feel faint, numbed sensations that remind her of pain. There's a pillow under her head, no, actually it's multiple pillows and she's slightly propped up. There's a blanket. She's not wearing her boots.

 

Her face feels clean. She touches it with her good hand, rubs her eye, but there's no leftover stain of make up on her fingers. She touches her hair. It doesn't feel like it's covered in dust and blood any more.

 

Ward, she realizes. She doesn't think how sweet it was of him, to clean her up so thoroughly.

 

Her first instinct is to get up and leave. What even is she looking for here? He's the enemy, she thinks (and her mind adds, _who exactly made him an enemy?_ ) and she should find some other place to regroup and heal... except what she told him was the truth. She doesn't have anywhere that she _can_ go.

 

SHIELD knows about everything else.

 

For an ex hacker, she proves to be monumentally stupid. Not to mention incompetent. (Or maybe just too trusting. That, considering the circumstances, is about the same thing as stupid)

 

She does try to get up. Her body resolutely decides against it and she slumps back into generously arranged pillows, helpless to do anything but let the support her.

 

Of course, that's when Ward shows up. She sighs.

 

“Your temperature signature changed,” he says as a matter of explanation. It doesn't explain anything so she just stares at him wondering how the world can be so unfair. To let him live and... some good people die.

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asks.

 

“That means I knew you were awake,” he says.

 

“Not creepy at all,” she mutters, realizing that he's carrying a tray of food, and that she's hungry. And she keeps insulting him, which she realizes is pointless. It won't change the situation she is in one bit, except to make it more difficult.

 

“Not as creepy as being able to burn stuff down with your bare hands,” he says. She gives him an incredulous look because no, that most certainly can't be true. Except then he sighs, rolls his eyes, extends his palm and a small flame flickers seemingly from his skin.

 

She fails to say anything.

 

“That … _thing_ ,” he pauses slightly, “left me several gifts.”

 

He lowers the tray on the nightstand next to her. When she takes a look at the food he brought – pancakes, syrup, omelet, sausages, bread, sliced tomatoes, orange juice – her stomach growls. He grins. It's not cocky and it's not infuriating, it's just a normal grin, and who gave him the right to do that?

 

“I'm not gonna hurt you,” he says, “if that's what worries you. I'm not gonna hurt anyone, except if someone comes after you and breaks through that door. I'm not interested in burning more things down,” he says and she watches him as he pulls the nightstand closer to her bed. “You need to eat. And you need to rest. And you can leave whenever you want to.”

 

 

*

 

Part of her wants to settle into the comfort this arrangement is offering to her. Ward feeds her three times a day and most of the time leaves her to her own devices. He doesn't seem to have a computer, but for a change she doesn't want one. She's content to lay in silence as her body and mind seem to sink into the bed she's in. Her arm is broken and Ward tied it tightly – it helps, even though she probably needs a cast, but there isn't a place where she could get one. Besides, she is still her mother's daughter. She heals fast. Or at least faster and with less help than other people.

 

She ventures to the bathroom late in the night, when she's certain his vibrations are quiet and calm and he's asleep. He has a mirror that reaches down to her waist, and when she undresses she realizes she sees herself like this for the first time in _months._

 

And the thing is, she is skin and bones.

 

And without make up, her face is pale and _doesn't_ look good.

 

She takes a shower, longest shower she's had in months, properly washes her hair and her body – once, twice, three times, until she feels she is at least somewhat clean. It all goes slowly because her arm hurts and she tries to move it the least that's possible.

 

She dresses and crawls back into bed and as she's falling back to sleep, she wishes she'd never have to get up and leave this place.

 

She... _wishes the world outside didn't exist._

 

 

*

It's clear to her that Ward isn't going to kick her out. She wishes he would. Fighting with him, being against him – that's what she knows. That's what feels safe and right and gives her a semblance of normalcy in which she is still team good guys and everything is right.

 

Except it isn't. She can't be the team good guys any more, and she surely doesn't deserve... any of this either.

 

That's why she starts egging him on, baiting him, annoying him so she could see his temper flare. It works, because she was always able to break through his resolve and make him react (isn't that the very reason why they're here where they are?). They exchange verbal blows like sparring kicks. It makes her feel good, it makes her feel as if something is finally under her control again, and it goes on and on and on, while she rests and her body recovers. (And still Ward _doesn't_ kick her out. There's a tiny, tiny voice that tells her, _well, maybe you're wanted somewhere._

 

She pretends she's not listening to it. And she pretends that it doesn't make her happy.)

 

*

 

The fight escalates from a minor thing.

 

She tells him that he's feeding her like a construction worker, and that she will get fat, and he tells her that her body needs nutrients and calories to get better. At that point he sounds exactly like old Ward, like Ward that never really was, like her SO that she still misses despite everything. And that's when she gets vicious, that's when she becomes unfair and cruel and tells him that he has ruined everything, that he has ruined lives, only this time he doesn't fold back and into himself. He lashes out, he tells her that they are all just a bunch of hypocrites, saying they will protect their own, when in truth they leave their own behind. He mentions Kara, and it takes her a moment to remember who Kara is ( _was)_ , and then he gets furious and hurt.

 

“Bobbi Morse left her to Hydra to keep her cover, and ultimately May caused her death,” he's saying, and there's something about the way his fists are shaking and how his vibrations are all over the place that tells her he's not lying.

 

He's _not._

 

“She wasn't a traitor, she was _brainwashed_ ,” he spits out and she flinches, remembering herself saying the same word to Coulson after they broke her out of Hive's hold. Outside of her cell rest of her team (her _family)_ was grieving after Fitz.

 

She wasn't invited to grieve with them.

 

“And what did Saint Hero Coulson do? He l _eft her for the dead_ ,” Grant says, and she is breathing so hard.

 

“He didn't... know,” she says.

 

“ _Beautiful_ ,” Grant says. “Why do you think he didn't?”

 

The answer is really simple. She remembers Bobbi telling her she's a rockstar. The words echo in her mind and make her skin crawl.

 

“You all killed her,” Grant says.

 

“Your revenge path is what killed her,” she responds, feeling shaky and weak inside her own skin.

 

“No, Skye,” he is saying, and her old name feels like a slap in her face. “She was left behind, and she was left without options, she was left with _me,_ and _nobody wanted me_. You all wanted me to die, hell, Simmons _tried to kill me_ and I am sure that put Kara in wonderful spot,” he says. “It surely gave her all the chances, especially considering how her fellow agent told her commanding officer what happened to Kara as a result of Hydra infiltration. After which a rescue party was launched. Not. No, _you all laughed at her face_ ,” he says.

 

And then he leaves.

 

 

*

 

Her hands shake the entire time as she packs.

 

It's not like she has a lot to pack. Aside from her jacket – which Ward found not too far away from his place – all that she has is new clothes he got her (comfortable, reasonable, neutral colors that help blend into the crowd.) But no matter how disoriented and slow she feels ( _she cannot think about what they just talked about, cannot think about Bobbi, she can't, she won't_ ) at one point she is done. And there's nothing else to do but take her duffel bag and leave.

 

When she shows up inside the living room, dressed, he gives her a flat look.

 

“I'm going,” she says.

 

“Then go,” he answers.

 

It's... completely calm. It's not even a tone he uses to mask anger or disappointment, or anything else. If anything, he is going to let her do whatever she wants, even if her body didn't recover fully yet. (If anything is true, it's just that: he always allowed her to do what she wanted.)

 

He won't fight _for_ her.

 

Something twists inside her chest.

 

She drops the bag to the floor. He doesn't react to the thud sound it makes, he's sitting at the dining table and reading the newspaper. She opts to walk towards him, adding sway to her hips as she drops her jacket.

 

“I want something before I go,” she says, as if she's entitled to anything.

 

“Really,” he doesn't look up.

 

“Really,” she answers.

 

And doesn't say anything until he does look up, awaiting explanation.

 

“I want you to fuck me,” she says.

 

He masks his reaction one second too late. She definitely sees that tiny second when his eyes go wide.

 

“What makes you think _I_ want to do that?” he asks. She smiles, an exaggerated, fake smile, leaning against the table right next to him. It's a dangerous game to play, but she lifts his chin with her finger and she strokes his lower lip with her thumb, and she definitely _feels_ him react. From tightly contained his vibrations suddenly feel focused and... alive.

 

She makes him _feel_. She revels in that realization.

 

“Come on Grant,” she's saying, aware that she didn't use his name since forever; since they've been friends. “You always wanted to fuck me.”

 

He's looking at her, and his gaze is heavy and serious, but it doesn't matter. Her blood feels like it's boiling. She's been cold inside for too long.

 

“I didn't,” he says. “At least I didn't want to _fuck_ you,” he says, and that's not the answer she's expecting. But then he's rising from his chair, standing in front of her in his full height.

 

“Really?” she mock – snorts, paying cool even though her insides are trembling. “And what did you want to do?”

 

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't roll his eyes, he just regards her for a moment or two.

 

And then he leans down and kisses her.

 

It's going right along with her plans, but it's still a shock. It's a shock because of how familiar he tastes, and because of the fact that she hasn't forgotten it. Because he does it with so much conviction, like this isn't just a game. And then, while she's parting her lips for him and drawing sharp little breaths and trying to press herself harder against his body, she realizes it was never a game for him.

 

That makes her pause. She pulls back and realizes his hands are gently framing her face. He's breathing hard, his eyes look dark and huge, filled with lust, and she realizes she has forgotten how _that_ feels as well. So she pulls him back, determined to take everything she can. She is starved for affection and human contact and anything that isn't cold and empty feeling of guilt.

 

To all of her world, she is the cause of all the problems.

 

But to him, she _is_ the world.

 

She pushes the thought away and focuses on the rush of her blood and everything he's making her _feel_ right now. Painless, weightless, invincible. She's being hit by conflicting emotions, by thoughts and memories that shake her up inside, and with every kiss she returns, she feels like she's opening her soul to all of it. They're stumbling through the living room, they hit the door to her room, he apologizes when she hisses in pain. He tries to kiss her gently, to soothe the discomfort pulsing through her arm. She doesn't want that kindness. She drags him to the bed, where she crawls backwards.

 

He crawls over her and keeps kissing her – it's hungry, intense, dirty in the good kind of way. It's hard to hold herself up with her good arm and undo the buttons and zipper with the broken one so he takes over. He's looking at her, trying to find discomfort or doubt – she knows, she can tell by the expression on his face – and all she wants is to telegraph complete and absolute lust. She gives him what she hopes is a slurty smile and bites her lower lip, spreading her legs like an offering. She can see him swallowing thickly, she can feel him, all of his anticipation, the rush of his blood, all the vibrations of his body that's normally so calm and controlled. She feels as if she's almost touching the life force she never knew he possessed because he always kept it hidden.

 

She knows a thing or two about that, she thinks. He's dragging her jeans down her legs. She is a woman who can cause earthquakes (a terrible power that was supposed to be kept within her until her skin fractured like dry soil). Here, she doesn't have to hide. There isn't any point in hiding either. She can feel the powerful reaction her mere touch can cause in the man above her.

 

She's in her shirt and her underwear, panties that used to be nice before (everything about her used to be nicer), and she is hoping he will just get rid of it (he can burn it away, she doesn't care as long as he doesn't burn her) and fuck her already. But he keeps kissing her in a way that makes her drag fingernails of her good hand down his back and then up again, until she's grabbing his hair and holding him like a lover. He starts to kiss down her throat, sucks on a pulse point hard enough to bruise, drags himself down her body until he's there, between her legs, pulling on her underwear and throwing it away.

 

She watches him put his mouth on her to eat her out, she makes herself watch until she absolutely _can't_ any more, because she has to throw her head back and plead with him to grant her the release he's teasing her with. He's being brutal about it, blunt fingers pushing into her, sending her hips off the bed as she screams. He wants to please her, she realizes, wants to give her the steady climb towards an orgasm that would fill her bones with contentment, and when she does realize it she's sure that's going to be all she'd be getting.

 

And she doesn't want that.

 

She wants him inside and she wants him to go hard, rough, to lose control. She wants to feel him shake – because of her. _She wants to cause earthquakes._

 

She tugs him by the hair and manages “In me,” and stares at his wet lips as he breaks himself out of the daze to obey her. It's surreal to watch him undress, but then he's done and he's above her, careful not to crush her and not to put any weight onto her wounded arm.

 

She tries to drag him down impatiently, but he is too heavy and he has set his mind to do this right, whatever right that might be. Deep inside she knows – he is going to kiss her and enter her slowly, mindful of not hurting her, but at this point she is so tired of feeling numb, that she's almost craving pain.

 

It's weird to taste herself inside his mouth, think how her taste, her presence stained him, just like he's stained her and spread through her heart, refused to leave even when she tried to exorcise him from her own being. He infected her until she didn't notice it any more, not realizing what she has become.

 

Always locked down and in control, struggling not to let anyone else close.

 

She had turned into him.

 

He enters her, finally, and it's exactly like she's expected, except she couldn't possibly imagine how it would feel. Grant closes his eyes, his powerful arms shaking as he tries to keep himself in check. Vibrations, both hers and his are buzzing through her; her hips peeling off the mattress again. She wants to grab the hold of those vibrations and send them both skyrocketing. He begins to fuck her, feeling bigger than she expected, but that's good, that's okay, because he's kissing her and her body is so turned on she could come at any moment. She tries to hold on as much as she can, asking him to just fuck her while he's treating her like precious porcelain, looking at her like she's everything. He sneaks a hand under her shirt and her plan flies out of the window. The moment he finds her breast and touches her nipple she can't deal with overload of senses, with the way his tongue possesses her mouth, the way he feels inside of her, and she's coming with the intensity of earth shattering. It takes just a moment until he does too.

 

*

 

She should go.

 

But she absolutely doesn't move from the bed.

 

*

 

When she wakes up it's dark outside and she is definitely not alone in the bed.

 

She's on her side, her bad arm carefully arranged so that it doesn't hurt too badly. Her ass is naked and against it is Grant's equally naked body. She moves and he stirs and while she's blinking in semi darkness, she can feel his dick twitch against her.

 

She doesn't think, she just pushes against him and in an instant he's awake (she feels it), a content groan climbing up his chest. His hand comes up to touch her arm, trail lightly down her side until he's touching her ass, fingers gliding down her leg, teasing her until he finds a way between her thighs.

 

She flips on her back and spreads her legs.

 

This time he undresses her. This time she makes herself look at him looking at her, the way his eyes explore her body that's nothing like the girl he got to know all that time ago in a van. She is thin and her hips are starting to stick out in a non flattering way, but in his eyes she can still find a reflection that's softened. Almost pretty. And most definitely wanted.

 

He flips them over so she's on top, giving her willingly all the control she wanted to claim for herself not a couple hours ago. He holds her hand as she rides him, fingers intertwined, her eyes on her and his expression breathless. She feels like she keeps on demanding, taking everything from him, and he keeps giving it without a fail, until she's come twice and her body is tired in a content way that makes her want to _stay_.

 

So she tells him.

 

She tells him everything, how she tried to hate him, and how she hated not being able to (the l – word hanging on her lips, too frightening to be allowed out into the world). She tells him about her change, about feeling lost, about finding her parents and losing them. She tells him about feeling so empty and how being swayed felt like everything she wanted, ever. How hollow she felt after. She tells him about Fitz losing his life because of Coulson's plan to save her, and subsequent blame Simmons put on her, because to Coulson she was more worthy.

 

So she left. Because she couldn't bear it.

 

He holds her. Words are of no use, and besides he knows well enough the extent of damage they're both bearing. Words cannot possibly fix it, but acceptance, absence of judging can soothe it. Eventually. She curls into him, suddenly feeling cold. His hands stroke her sides, carefully warming her up. She thinks about how amazing he is – how long it took her to feel comfortable in her new skin, to be able to control her power so precisely. She tries to imagine how he learned to control his own power like this and decides to ask about it tomorrow.

 

Because she's staying.

 

He might have sworn never to burn anything ever again, but he surely can light up a fire inside of her.

 


End file.
